tidings of joy, or something like it
by vega-de-la-lyre
Summary: Nate fixes Wade with one of those shrewd, impenetrable gazes, the type that makes Wade feel itchy and unclean all over. Cable and Deadpool.


Click.

"I says, 'Edith, darling, what is, is' and then I said, 'Edith, darling, what was, was'. And finally, I say, 'Edith, darling, what's going to be, is going to be'. But your mother in-law don't know nothin' about philosophy."

Click.

"—Talked about this. You are not my girlfriend."

"But I am me. And you are you. We're Chuck and Blair. Blair and Chuck. The worst thing you've ever done, the darkest thought you've ever had, I will stand by you through anything—"

Click.

"—Other than survival or death. So all our choices were usually based solely on those parameters. Life chose me. What about you?"

Click.

"Your zipper is down." Nate's face is grainy and flickering on the television screen. "Made you look!"

"Whoa whoa whoa _hold on_," Wade says, putting down the remote. "These aren't my special channels, what in the name of Bea is going on here?"

For the first time, he looks around the room. He's no longer in his apartment, but some vast white space that seems to extend for an eternity. The only things he can see are his television and his couch. Which he is sitting on. And it seems to miraculously free of dirty socks and cheeto crumbs.

"Huh," he says, turning the television off.

Wade weighs his options. If this is hell, all things considered, it's not that bad. If it's heaven, he could use a few more red-headed Irish mutants to liven things up, but he can make do. If he's just dreaming—

"Hello, Wade," Nate says, sitting next to Wade on the couch. Wade maybe jumps a little. _Maybe_. And reaches for a gun that isn't there. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"_Fnaughhh_," Wade says. "Okay, subconscious, you want to tone it down a little? What, did I eat a bad burrito? Because if you're Cable—"

Nate laughs and stretches out his feet. "It's me, Wade," he says. His face is more lined and tired-looking than Wade has ever seen it; he's been gone for a long time. "You're asleep. It's just easier for me to hack your brain this way."

"Right," Wade says. "This is the Marvel universe, it's _supposed_ to be fun and whacky, that kind of thing? Hey, I thought you lost your powers after the exploding-island fiasco. Or are we handwaving that for the purposes of this fic?"

Nate ignores him, as usual. "I just thought we haven't talked in awhile. And it's nearly Christmas, for you, anyway.

Wade sighs and looks at his hands. Here, in his dreams, they're whole and unscabbed. "You've been gone for a nearly a year, Nate. It's a lot to catch up on. You can't just drop in from some bleak dystopian future and chat like—"

"You _missed_ me," Nate says accusingly, smile tugging at the stern set of his mouth.

"Did not!" Wade protests. "I did not, you big messianic maniac—oh, hell. Shut up."

They lapse into companionable silence, and then Wade grins. "Having fun playing nanny?"

Nate shakes his head and laughs, scrubbing one hand over his careworn face. "Yeah, I never exactly saw myself cut out for the parental role. Surprise, surprise. But after dealing with Apocalypse, protecting one little girl, jumping through the timestream—it doesn't seem all that bad." Nate pulls his focus back to the present with what appears to be great effort. "So, seriously. How have things been back here for you?"

Wade shrugs one shoulder. "Oh, you know," he says easily. "Infiltrated a Skrull invasion force, became the daddy to a new generation of Super-Skrulls, drove them all crazy, made them go_ splorch_ and helped save the Earth. Par for the course, am I right? Ooh, and I launched a new book. Too early to say how that one's going, new writer, and all, but the art's decent and I still get to keep my little yellow caption boxes. Point for Deadpool. But more importantly, Katy Perry released a second single and proved she wasn't just a one-hit wonder! Wait, hold on, you weren't even around for her first single, Nate, the things you've missed, the cute little hotpants you've been deprived of, the endless nights spent lying awake, speculating about the tastiness of cherry chapstick—"

"Ask a simple question," Nate says wryly, and Wade knows that apart from the look of you-are-an-eggplant Nate has been inflicting on him the whole time during the babbling he's also been kind of smiling, so that's kind of okay, then.

"Anyway, that's what I've been up to," Wade says. "I would say it's been boring since you left, but, you know, it's Marvel, there's always another earth shattering company-wide crisis over the horizon, so we've been keeping ourselves busy."

Nate nods, distracted. "The X-Men?"

"They've moved base to California now. No, I don't know what the editors were thinking, either, I haven't trusted Quesada since the whole One More Day debacle—oh, your father and that frigid but intriguingly hot girlfriend of his are doing fine, I guess. And your not-mother hasn't come back from the dead yet, although I still have questions the Powers That Be have yet to answer about that little girl you're looking after—"

Nate stiffens.

"What—whoa," Wade says, as a series of loud echoing bangs reverberate through the empty white space.

Slowly, Nate stands. "That's coming from your end," he says. "Someone's at the door."

"Probably just Weasel," Wade says, not getting off the couch. He stares at the staticky television. "I told him not to come over."

Nate fixes Wade with one of those shrewd, impenetrable gazes, the type that makes Wade feel itchy and unclean all over. "They're your friends, Wade, you should be nicer to them," Nate says firmly, and Wade tells himself that no, the tone of Nate's voice isn't making him squirm guiltily, he's just got eczema, that's all. "They're all you've got—you're waking up. I have to go."

"Wait," Wade says as the edges of Nate's body begin to dim and flicker. "Before you go. That psimitar you sent me? From the future? You know, issue fifty, _sfachanggg_?"

"Yeah," Nate says, his voice distant and thin.

"Best present ever, Nate," Wade says. "I mean it. Thanks."

Nate grins, eye flaring with white light. "I thought you'd like it," he says, seeming just a little more solid as he takes Wade's hand and clasps it tight in his iron grip. "I'll see you again, Wade. But it's time to wake up now. Wake—"

"—up, man, we're all here!"

Wade wakes with a snort.

"Open up, we have presents! And beer!" It's Weasel, pounding on the door. "And it's not even light beer!"

"Girls decided to let me off the diet for the night," Alex says, sounding slightly muffled. "We know you're in there, Deadpool, open the door. Bob's wife made cake!"

Wade sits up straighter on the couch. He can still feel the pressure of Nate's hand on his, fingers tingling and warm. "Nnngh," he replies, pulling on his mask in defense. "Sandi and Outlaw are here? I do love cake. And presents. No, wait! I thought I told you guys I wanted to be alone. Go 'way."

"Oh, for God's sake, Wade—"

Wade perks up. He stands, moving closer to the door. "Are those Irene Merryweather's dulcet tones I hear?"

"Oh, sure, that'll get him to open the door," Sandi mutters. "We're not good enough for him?"

"Come on, Wade, it's Christmas Eve," Irene says into the keyhole, voice characteristically exasperated. "What would Cable say if he saw you sulking like this?"

"He would probably tell me it builds character, much like being infected with a techno-organic virus as an infant and sent thousands of years into a war-torn future by your grieving father, forcing you to be raised in a harsh world where you fought for survival every single day," Wade says, hand on the doorknob. "Nate knows the value of a good rugged, manly sulk. What's the password? No one gets in without the password."

There is a pause, some confused whispering, and then Bob volunteers cautiously, "um, hail Hydra?"

From behind the door comes the distinct sound of someone smacking Bob hard over the head, and under his mask, Wade smiles. "Close enough, I guess," he says, and opens the door.


End file.
